Erebus on the Cusp of Dawn
by Hic Iacet Mori
Behind closed eyes shine a multitude of stars—some yellow, some red, some gray like dreams forever lost. They are the stars in your head, the stars in your eyes, the stars you will fight for the right to dream of. But they are stars meant to fall, imperfect against the night—they are broken stars with no promise of sleep and dreams within. They pass through the air and crumble into sand, fragments of stars that can only make you weep.
Sasuke's eyes flew open.
He sat up on his bed, silky blue sheets pooling around his waist as shadows danced upon his milky-white skin. His right hand rubbed on the sleep cobwebs in his eyes before gently sliding down his face, his left hand curling unconsciously upon his lap as he sifted through the wordless thoughts and formless images among the incessant stream of his consciousness. It took him less a second to realize he was awake, lesser to wonder how it happened—why a second ago he was asleep in his warm bed and the next his eyes were open and sensations were assaulting him. Ideas were flying in his brain too swiftly for his consciousness to catch but the certainty niggling at the back of his mind forced him to full consciousness in half a minute.
He climbed down and made his way to his window, his footfalls silenced by his dark blue carpeting. The heavy blue drapes were tied on both sides of the window, and he could clearly see the old maple tree directly across his window. The full moon appeared to perch over its highest branch like a lazy white feline deigning to shower the world with her presence, regal and striking, demanding of attention and forever beyond the grasp of those who longed to claim her. He could see the shadows of the leaves, flickering in time with the waltz of the foliage, the night breeze rolling past to a silent music. He could see a smattering of stars and know this was eternity in her glorious dark form.
It was peaceful, this night, something he had never noticed before—he always slept early and was dead to the world throughout this nocturnal calm. Experiencing this for the first time, he could feel a strange curl of gratitude in his chest at being awake to witness it tonight.
Another breeze and his unseeing eyes watched the shadows dance once more. A minute or so of watching and, finding nothing strange, he turned to go back. As much as he had enjoyed the brief interlude, he needed to be early to school tomorrow. He also had to catch up on the sleep he had lost because of her.
Wind flew past once more and he paused, his body half-turned. His mind quickly replayed what he saw mere seconds ago.
A shadow wasn't moving.
He nonchalantly made his way to his right, as if going back to bed, only to creep to the edge and observe. Another breeze. Another unmoving shadow.
Someone was watching him.
He rolled this thought over in his mind, hearing its silent echoes, tasting its secret flavor. He wondered idly why it didn't alarm him.
Before he returned to bed, he thought he saw a flash of a smile hidden within the shadows.
Sleep wouldn't come.
He had been sitting on his bed, staring into nothingness, his mind curiously blank as his hands clenched and unclenched on his dark blue sheets. A vacant glance to the glowing red numbers on his radio clock showed it was five minutes to ten.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. He had lost interest in the book that once held him spellbound on those past days ago he couldn't recall. He didn't even remember the plot anymore, and the book had easily slid out of his lax fingers the way its story had from his mind. Instead, his thoughts had drifted to the Fourier Series and why he disliked Calculus very much, before snorting at himself in disgust and lying on his back to stare at his ceiling, his books piled beside him, his eyes dry and ready for a sprinkling of dust from the Sandman.
Minutes later—or was it hours?—and he remained awake, frustrated. That inconsiderate anthropomorphic personification. Sasuke was ready to throttle the ass if he appeared, fondness for Death or not. Why wouldn't the bastard make him sleep?
... Excellent. Now he was imagining his favorite characters as real. What next? Would he love his velveteen throw-pillow until it was Real?
Just why the hell couldn't he sleep?
He was done with his school work—school rarely gave assignments but everyone was expected to read the chapters to be discussed on the next day. He had read his Calculus chapters twice to be sure, telling himself he only did so because the topics were a bit tolerable. He wasn't failing the subject, was in fact receiving top marks, but his bias against it made him slip sometimes.
He had a simple dinner after and then he watched a bit of TV, lingering on the news and not-drooling at the promise of an upcoming book from a favorite author. He then took his last cup of dark chocolate for the day and retired for the night, raring to finish the book he bought some time ago. He was all set for an ordinary night of reading until his eyes grew heavy and the words lead him into sleep—it was practically the highlight of his day, falling asleep in the arms of his imagination. His dreams were pleasant though unfortunately, he couldn't remember them when he woke up.
But he couldn't sleep. Couldn't couldn't coul—
His nerves prickled. He could feel it now, for some reason. The presence he had become familiar with in a short span of time.
He slowly stood up and crept his way to the window, still confoundingly wide-awake. There was the maple tree directly across his window, a precise seven meters—22.97 feet, his mind automatically calculated—away from his window, with a thick white wall separating the tree and his house. He could see nothing but glowing leaves and lurking shadows against the backdrop of night, but he knew that person was there. He could sense her.
He made his way back to bed and lay down, staring up the ceiling once again with his limbs sprawled around him. What was she doing here? Had she really been spying on him? Was that why she knew a lot about him?
But why would she spy on him?
Her presence was consuming his mind. He hadn't seen her but he knew she was there, was sure that it was she who was watching from the tree outside his house. It was always there, whenever she was around—the muted electricity, the vibrant heat, the lazy wash of light and darkness and the shadows in between that alternately soothed and alarmed him. Her presence tugged him in opposite extremes and he was feeling it right now, the way he couldn't decide whether he should be righteously furious with her for intruding on his privacy or oddly plea—
Something inexplicable twisted in his stomach. He decided not to think about it.
He lay awake for a time, just waiting, just feeling, ignoring the passage of time and his eyes that were finally losing their battle against sleep. He allowed his eyes to rest for a moment before an insistent tug on his consciousness brought him out of his half-asleep state a swift moment later.
Her presence was gone.
He glanced at the clock. 4:07 am.
He bit his bottom lip, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to yell.
Long after the sun had risen, Sasuke had yet to sleep.
"I know you're there."
His voice was a low whisper in the night, his eyes fixed on where he felt she was hiding. He ignored the chill as another breeze brushed past the open window to glide around him. He only wanted answers and she had yet to deliver what she had promised the last time in the cemetery. He wasn't curious as to why she was there. Wasn't concerned that she was losing sleep over him. It was her choice to stay on the tree and freeze playing I spy like the idiot she was. But...
His breath unconsciously hitched when a booted foot stepped away from the shadows. This was followed by an orange pant leg and another booted foot, orange making way for black before abruptly stopping under a bulky orange and black jacket. Her face remained hidden in the darkness but he could see golden strands of hair whipping up with every roll of the breeze.
He shivered. He didn't like the shadows on her features.
He opened his mouth. He meant to demand the answer to his question days ago but something else came out of his lips without permission.
"Come in."
He couldn't be sure but he thought she had taken a step back in surprise. He himself was stunned at what he had said and he meant to take it back, but something forced his mouth open and words tumbled out again before he could stop himself.
"Or do idiots need an Idiots Welcome sign?"
What the hell was wrong with him? It was bad enough that he had taken to insulting her even in his thoughts—he didn't care much for the rest of the world to form opinions, good or bad—that he had been thinking about her in the first place; but now, his mouth had disconnected from his brain, the treacherous organ, and words were escaping his lips like blood from a busted artery!
He was about to berate himself for the inane metaphor when a sudden movement halted his thoughts.
A blur of orange and black jumped from branch to branch until it landed on the highest, a specter with glowing stars for eyes, and half a second later it was hovering in the emptiness of the night sky. It was a visual shock, gold hair and bronze skin and trails of red lace conquering the darkness before abruptly plummeting into the abyss, objects of tragedy against the inevitability of man's swift descent. A strangled yell died on his lips as nimble feet landed on the concrete wall separating him from the outside world, and then his mouth dropped open as the silhouette landed on a crouch and pushed forward into another powerful jump.
His heart pounded wildly, his breath caught in his throat, he watched her sail through the air in a perfect arc, feline grace and foxy smile, her hands catching on his window ledge and her body pushing upward in one fluid move, and she was suddenly in his face, grinning down at him with splinters of blue skies caught in her eyes.
Her even breath brushed against his cheeks but he didn't really mind because he couldn't breathe and she was breathing for the both of them just fine.
"... You letting me in now?"
He wordlessly stepped aside and she promptly slid in, settling into the corner of his room farthest from his window, from him. She sat down and her eyes drifted shut, comfortable in her assumed birthright of his private sanctuary, leaving him to look down at her in stunned bewilderment even as his mind struggled to discern if he was dreaming or awake. Her eyes were closed but watching against his unseeing ones, her form hidden by the shadows despite the brightness of her clothes, the brightness of the light her presence ignited in him. She was there but not there, like wisps of dreams before wakening, like warm sand in his hands. She was his Dream with sands in her fingers, and she watched him behind bright eyes from the shadows of his mind.
He went to bed in a daze, still reeling from the ghost of her breath on his skin, the faint scent of jasmines in the wake of her smile. He swiftly fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of sands and shadows and splinters of smiles.
An insistent pull hours later woke him up. The coldness in the room told him she was gone.
Reach out a hand and catch the falling sands—the stars may not be perfect and they may sift through your hands, but in a fraction of eternity you had the right to call them mine.